Time passes me by. Can time really exist, beyond my constructed experience of fleeting moments – they roll; the lake passes like it. I am inert on the bench riveted on the promenade, smoking the cigarette I declared the final ‘smoke’ months ago. The afternoon’s blue sheen over the sky has faded into its purple, red and orange pre-night shade. The night is the sky’s shade. Every pull forces today to fade, into the distance where timelessness is; it’s the prismatic sky that conjures: The intermittent point between, a pause before the fall of darkness, where evil and good dissolves time into nothingness. The past a mystery to the human mind, a mind so fragile in its own delusions, distortions. I feel sick from normative thoughts, platitudes reverberating across the table, the furthest corner, the bar, jingling that silver cutlery set: This is all in an amenity I’d rather absorb myself in. I yearn to convocated with the folk, the dealers, prostitutes and the tech-savvy hipsters; I want their distortions surrendered to truth after a battle with norms and performative action – around romantic tables. I like the inebriated; the vaunted sap of literary orations, a soliloquy. This lake’s stream can take me there, to the place, timeless, where people are free, smoking, drinking and shaming the constructions of this fabricated reality; this schizo-nomadism is to counteract the world’s absolute schizophrenia. The leader, heart limpid and pure, could not survive the inculcated psychosis requisite to the deluded, calms minds – able to sell sweat, tears and blood of the worn-out to the warned fiend of material gain, merely to be thrown, burned into the smoke of my cigarette, fading with the prismatic sky, into the darkness, nothingness of timelessness.
It has been a week already. I left Turkey for a sojourn at. But the heat of life, the emptiness, absence of work – all kept me riveted to this pinnacle banal cycle of sleep, food, thinking but no love. If I get that job eight miles away from where I live, life may present a new array of paths. I could ingress into one. My heart beats motley with the world’s rhyme; the exchange of ideas between my father and the neighbor has fused with the local council’s rubbish removal truck; the radio, detached from this synthesis, is its own world – like me. The world rushes past me. My hands are still cold imbued in the last mistake. A final calm bounces off my walls. The bastion of my withering, that zest in life, zeal for life as a reality, a grandiose outlook, that place where everything made sense by radiating its meaninglessness: where good and evil is invisible; love is manifest between the fusion of two minds; ageing is not existent, only rough waters are seen and the skin is experienced: I want to be there again. But I have exchange love in favour of a cool mindset. The pills sieve me of my self, but my natural existence is too tumultuous: Steady love, passion – smiles may not be nourished.
This is my second consistent diary entry. I ought to be praised for it. The apple sign popped up on the screen of the phone connected to this laptop. Two women, looking perplexed, walked passed me. The duty-free sign is obscuring the reflection of people on the window. Some planes are visible; they land with such speed – one does not feel it inside the plane. The apple sign’s appearance implies a charging phone – this implies “internet”. But – how mean, low and “under” is it to leave you, my beloved vocation – writing – (to write) so hastily, for an airport’s tumult, no less, for the mere internet. I lied. The airport is not chaotic or busy, and passengers are only visible sporadically. A little cutie pie, a girl, is raising hell – running in circles with her tiny suitcase. The workers are weird. Airport workers seem ostracized, in the periphery of life. It is the only place where all kinds of people are welcomed into drudgery: Perhaps the rejects from each category end up pouring their life, surrendered to an existential crisis, into these wretched places. I refuse to, thus, be an airport employee. “If only that girl was culture,” I say, only her nape visible, as she walks past me with an air of alluring sexuality. Her body refined, slithers into a well-kept face. She walks like Rosa Luxemburg – if Rosa, literally Corbyn murdered her, lived today. I wish such women were theorists and revolutionaries. This post-left, post-structuralist world has cooked our minds away from actual inquiry to image intensive posturing: It is cool to be pedantic, to reiterate facts about Scott Fitzgerald’s sex life. We miss Emma Goldman, Rosa Luxemburg; the factory girls remain a cutesy – zany imagination. Where is Simone de Behaviour?
In midnight in Paris, Mr. W. Allen takes on the notion that the past was somehow “better”. The protagonist is writing a novel about a “nostalgia shop owner”; the author believes ‘another era was better’. The world, in Woody Allen’s surrealist form, shifts to accommodate our protagonist, the author, in the 1920s: He awaits a car every night; as the clock strikes 24:00, he is taken on a ride back in time. Scott Fitzgerald and his lover become the vehicle for his convergence with Ernest Hemmingway, Picasso – and, finally, a girl that makes him pessimistic about his fiancé. After various occurrences that I do not want to enumerate not to ruin the movie for future viewers; it turns out the girl loves another era that passed before her birth. Everyone feels the past was more magical. Our transient and short-lives, even, manage to accommodate what ought to remain evanescent ideas; the world was admirable when we were 15, but at 40 – “young people these days”. Romanticising an era embroiders all “golden” occurrences, images, ideas, thoughts into one denote. The sticky, rough, grimy realities of that era effaced, we adore only that portrait – sieved, wrong, misconceived. The past seldom passes through my mind as golden, neither my heart palpitates for an image or moment exemplifying that era. One thing has sufficed to be uncanny within our generation though: Our young say “young people these days”; “my generation – good lord – the past was better.” Are we the only generation that can honestly assume sometime in the past was better? We are the only generation that constructs such opinions about its own generation: Elders opined about the young they did not understand. We understand ourselves, our fellow travellers in this world: are we this enigma that can be annexed from any correlative imaginations and misconceptions of the past? Bring back Rosa Luxembourg.
Anything can precipitate an angry backlash. I am tired of using “a”, “an”, “the” this and that too. Besides other symptoms of lazy writing, my passion, love for witherings has dwindled. The call for prayer catupultes my nerves into rationlity, again. One perhaps requires the stupidity, irrationality, idiocy religion secretes from its every orifice to remain rational as an enemy to this tumultuous mind fuck business. It 2017, you fuck-face: Everyone has a watch, a phone or some other hideous thing to tell them the time; yes, they will check how far they are in a day of fucking and being fucked while laying the blame on those who are innocent or inferior to them, also being blamed. Ergo, cunt, everyone is aware of the time of prayer. The de facto nerds of yours, in fact, hurtle towards God’s den, the mosque, prior to the call to prayer. Idiot, just quit calling. Your Islamic fools are turning up tbhe volume on the loud speakers, it is limpid to us all, within more secular demographics, to trigger the nerves of those deemed less-religious: if a reaction is precipitated thus, the religious can feign proscecution once again.
These idiots will beat you down everyday, then hone in on you because “you pinched them back”. God repel you are educated, a communist etc. – they will make mourning over this pinch requisite to citizenship and a democratic right. Every policy will be stained with rhetoric about this minor reaction. “You pinched us, ergo we have the right to tax alcohol”. So much is the schizophrenia of the religious. But, as I have scribbled above, they remind me to be rationale. In the fog of mental and ethical imitation, fakery – ersatz – the man who knows he is bad, that the world is wrong, that religion cannot emancipate us, at least in the form it has been contorted – an effortlessly contorted toy – is king.
A Kurd, Alevi (Alewi): I am, by nature, suicidal in Turkey. Nothing is loathed more than a Kurdish Alevi, who happens to espouse leftist ideas. I am a terrorist, thief, black-market advocate, flag burner – and Turkey’s all time hit – a CIA agent.
A nation so paranoid, psychotic; a people enveloped in platitudes… As I paint this word-pic, blue and red dominates the screen behind my laptop – fuzzy from a reluctance to use my spectacles and face, in hd, a perdition of a nation; a cacophony – jarring opinions synthesise and radiate the familiar sound: Utter disavowal. A media so feeble and fickle, contemptible, capricious, posses the nerve to covet, identifiable from their allusive remarks, a result opposed to a reality they’ve constructed.
53.2% Yes and 46.8% say no. Erdogan is on his way to total domination
The Gezi movement gifted us with a possibility: Revolt, attached to a fragrant brotherhood permeating the air that pierced through the gas clouds. Stones were thrown to puncture the years of silence represented by the dark curtain of cops. The party ended within two months, emotions refined and opinions shifted; the generation so ferocious in a foray against the cops, the system, retreated to instagram likes over mid-tier cafe verandas.
We have watched a movie since: Voice recordings implicating Erdogan in fraudulent activities; lies exposed; Kurdish towns flattened; a coup de’ tat – a joke; silence!
‘You are responsible for what you do to yourself’
Je suis Fatiquee! We are all tired and annoyed – hopeless, betrayed. This, the referendum, was our final opportunity to strangle Erdogan (figuratively) with his own whip, send him into depression during his dying days. But fear possessed all. The police state, though ambitious in its aims, overachieved, tamed the critical tongue. Thousands gazed at their desks being cleared without a pretext (you might be a Gulenist, at best); mothers warned children away from protests destined to ensue a ferocious police attack, occasionally live bullets were used; and the rest found nihilism, in-difference.
As the most loathed, and thus having a good reason to fear, I, among others, tried – we did: Carrying life with an arduous attempt to convince folk away from the deplorable reality the AKP and Erdogan has bestowed on Turkey; others located the impetus to dive right in and take political action. Some are in prison – the multitude surrendered and retreated back to normal life. But the Erdogan stench, no matter the flowers, burning incense, blood or fervour, remains dominant.
Good-bye, Turkey, enjoy your senescence, while inebriate with Erdoganism, nationalism and absolute stupidity. I prefer the sap of red wine.
A skinny array of models stream the runway like a river, some even exhibiting signs of undernourishment: naturally, the mind tethers the epitome of appearance with an unhealthy obsession over self-image transverse in all strata of society. The average citizen and ‘higher echelons’ share this, sometimes creeping and hidden, often limpid, issue. Weight loss products strew our computers and cellphones; our recently accumulated flabs are our first point of contact with friends, family and, even, the local shop-keeper, following a greeting:
“Hello! How you been? You have put on weight,” is orated before our lips move to answer.
The conspicuous aside; erudition is not pre-requisite to observe a hidden ingress of ‘body-image’ obsession. All diet programs and – I hate to admit this – even exponents of veganism, a movement galvanised supposedly by hypersensitivity for animal welfare, markets their ideas on this basis. Before and after photos are preliminary to “our diet will do this” – and so on; or elaborate and intricate arguments cement advocacy of certain diets.
The issue is not in existence with impunity and neither is it free of criticism. In fact, a recent foray by the fashion industry, primarily Elle, a hot, highbrow fashion magazine, has precipitated a gradual – effective re-traction from skinny models and unrealistic body imagery, which induce myopic, impossible attempts to refine one’s body to match photo-shopped, filtered snaps of models.
Candice Huffine lure potential customers of Elle, April addition: On the shelf, she weill be the only model that considered ‘plus-sized’, without the intrusion of the word ‘plus-sized’ or ‘curved’ over her face, or visible among the tumultuous background.
Attached to an Instagram post, she wrote: “For as long as I can remember, I dreamt of being a model,” Huffine wrote. “So my body type wasn’t ideal measurements, minor detail.
“I refused to be told I couldn’t become what I had always imagined and committed myself to working tirelessly for the day when my size wouldn’t dictate my possibility.”
A multitude of issues remain, of course. One-off inclusions, or only particular examples reached to, will never suffice to solve the discriminatory, and damn right! Insulting, arbitrary inculcation and inoculation of particular, chosen “pinnacle” image examples.
Consistency is required; generic models included; POC people properly portrayed, or interpretations embroidered to an accusation will manifest and infest: “it is a marketing gimmick” or some other atrocious idea, rendering the venture a ‘dalliance’.
It is 9.am, the sun’s slant ray pierces through an iron-clad stratosphere above one of Europe’s most overrated cities – London – a low-brow, commercial, platitude rife town; the same scents permeate the air. The voque riveted to the short-term memory. Everyone is transient, you to them.
A walk suffices to conjure effete imagery, sounds, scents – fused to form ailments in the mind, as said by psychiatry. Inebriate with thought, sapped in hope. Alcohol is requisite for garnish. Booze served in a glass, quaffed sitting on furniture – exorbitant, so you exchange the glass for a can, furniture for a bench. Music marries the imagination – you are free in euphoria; the list is endless, but you are care-free, for the mind is the escape hub. Friends are called, love is declared, another day pulls you towards perdition; the next day will produce more, one hopes.
A thought is brewing: “Tomorrow is going to be ok, I think; I hope that thing will be fine. I miss my lover. I wonder what Sontag’s politics was; need to check that out.” My eyes languid, phlegm is commencing, but then:
“This system is terrible: We treat animals like products, and the earth as our infinite source and dustbin. I am going to write an essay on this. Ah! I really like my quirky character. Inoculating a Cimmerian radiance could, perhaps, add a new vibe to the novel, a different voice. All my other characters are whimsical. I wonder if this makes them one dimensional, like marvel superheroes. I should get into marvel and sci-fi; expand pantry of genres. But it could become a plethora. Nothing is excess is good. Oh… I should have slept 2 hours ago. I wonder if my lover is asleep. I should call her… nah, it is too late and you guys are pretty new. Steer clear of coming across too clingy. Hmmm, is she becoming the nucleus of my life… Thoughts of her is vacuuming most of my time. Time is not mine; what kind of egoism is that? There is no such thing as time, anyway. But, could I be some kind of egoist? Oh, no! I do not want to be selfish. Seriously, I remember manipulating ambivalent friends so I could get that coffee I like. Ah! I am so manipulative. This needs to halt. German is a great language, all I know is halt. One of my characters is German, a poet. Poems should be included in the book; it will enrich the story. But what kind of poem. About love, maybe…
‘Her eyes so bright and green, a sheen over my yearning for a beam – of life. Death so unthreatening; her life my armour, and I feel no karma. The strata, just the linage of rocks on a precipice. Her perceptive mind, my delight; My admiration, her contrived smile… The black bile can seep – it metamorphises into words of wisdom…’
Ah! That sounds way too Shakespearean. Maybe something about life:
‘Dwelling in the inner circle of life, awaiting the next abomination: A commercial coffee; hair tided so traditionally, if it was a phrase, it will be a platitude; a boring movie. There is that may sooth me – a new bud, a back rub, a tub – bubbles and water.’
Oh, wait! How did I fall asleep?
That time when canvatinas died with the seranata’s swig, from his bottle, the musician – drinks. Us drunk, him drinking.
That time on the piazzaz; in Italian we loved; the moon bright, almost full.
When our pathologies, dream world and utopia fused… that time.
That time we fell under Rimbaud’s lindens on the promenade; I with a self imposed napoleon complex, like dostoyevski’s Raskalinikov; you like the lover conjured in imagination within a thousand novels; us like Ali’s Maddona in a fur coat.
That time I knew you were Amelie, and sweet like a French movie, well recorded.
Nothing I feel passionate about:
Cold showers against my inclination to warmth and comfort;
Summer on my mind, while the external is below freezing;
Chairs too unsettling. The bed cascades into perdition: Desolation, dejection, its fuel.
Whining is off the table; only wine diminishes the diner’s useless parable.
Hidden notes located, out of date, in the pantry – forgotten.
Ideas from the past, images no-longer relatable; the glow’s sheen etiolated: dead inside.
You caress the notion ‘passion’, finding warmth and comfort.
But all is ominous; news troubling; friends obscured.
Then love arrives, perhaps to kill you again: A death worth finding.
Yet the prospect does not hurt – because all passion is ad nauseum henceforth.
Go back to bed, the chair is uncomfortable; wassail with wine, drench the thoughts in chemicals… re-furbish your pantry: You are dead inside.